magic in my veins
by symphonies of you
Summary: "It is a universal law and indubitable fact set in stone since the earth was born that Rose Weasley is blessed with an infallible sensibility and intellect, but now she's been reduced to an airhead by her so-called best friend." / a two-shot containing two best friends: a flirtatious scorpius malfoy and an oblivious rose weasley. SEQUEL TO PLEASE STAY FOREVER.


hello, it's me.

sorry, i had to do that. but yeah, i'm back with another one. terribly sorry that this took so long to publish but i'm still going through a bad case of writer's block and this year's just been incredibly busy with my first semester of college and making new friends and figuring out what i want to do and plan to do and whatnot. so, please do forgive me! **this fic will be a sequel to "please stay forever,"** **which i published two years ago**. don't know what else to say except this contains an incorrigibly flirtatious scorpius, an oblivious rose who's in perpetual denial, and a myriad of cute moments.

hope you enjoy!

 **words:** 7,022.

 **disclaimer:** don't own. jkr does.

* * *

She wakes up with her jerk face of a best friend at the front of her mind, an annoyingly implacable issue that hasn't failed to relapse over the past eight days like a bloody broken record. Ever since that perplexing kiss that he sprung on her, she hasn't been able to stop thinking of him, his smirk, his dreadful hair, his stupid arms that totally don't fit around her slender frame perfectly.

She absolutely _hates_ Scorpius. Well, except not really, since she may or may not possibly be attracted to him.

Y'see, his never-ending line-up of airheaded girlfriends and admirers were the ones who constantly mooned and tittered and simpered over him. And of course, they ended up owling Rose about him, and it was her duty as his best friend to scoff at their pathetic fondness of Scorpius and to tell them to sod off because their behaviour was inexcusably embarrassing and gave the minority of truly and beautifully sane girls, like yours truly, a bad rep.

Oh, how the tables have turned. The irony is rather detestable and unappreciated, especially since Scorpius Malfoy is a complete arse who would never fancy her and kissed her just to screw with her head. It is a universal law and indubitable fact set in stone since the earth was born that Rose Weasley is blessed with an infallible sensibility and intellect, but now she's been reduced to an _airhead_ by her so-called best friend.

Alright, enough whining. A girl does not need to stress over Scorpius Malfoy when it is her _twentieth birthday_.

She flops over and tumbles off her bed to the (thankfully) carpeted floor. And God knows she's also renowned for a lifelong, severe case of clumsiness. She throws open the door to her closet and slips on an old, oversized Holyhead Harpies jersey and an almost-indecently short pair of neon pink shorts that Lily bought her last year before popping into the loo to brush her teeth and fix her hair into something (hopefully) presentable enough to be seen with in public. Not that she's going to go outside today, since no one (Scorpius) has owled her yet on her bloody twentieth birthday.

It's when she's cooking herself breakfast that she hears a familiar knock on her door.

 _Well_ , she's feeling particularly evil right now, and no one would blame her for making him wait outside a currently undetermined amount of time since he deserves—

"Rose Weasley, if you don't open this goddamn door, I'm afraid I will have to resort to risking the unbearable pain of your killer charms and breaking it down!"

Ugh, she is sucha sucker for this dramatic boy.

She mumbles the counter-spells for her protective charms and yells that she took the wards off. Turning back around to scoop the scrambled eggs and bacon onto her plate, she hears a pair of footsteps slowly making its way across the tiled floor, and a small smile involuntarily finds its way onto the curve of her lips as she begins eating. And she nearly jumps – which probably would've been followed by a shriek resembling that of a banshee – when a pair of (his) arms sneaks around her waist.

"Nice legs, Miss Weasley."

A blush flowers across her freckled cheeks before she can stop it. "Why, thank you ever so much, Mister Malfoy. Is this how you go about wooing all your airheads?"

He lets her go, and she turns around to see a smirk flit across his lips as he shamelessly eyes her rarely exposed legs. She clears her throat and raises an eyebrow at his antics.

"As much as I approve of your stunning legs, I'd rather you wear that _almost_ equally stunning dress that you wore last week when we went shopping for Mother's gift," he suggests with amusement alight in his grey eyes.

"Or would you much rather that I take you up on your previous offer of parading Diagon Alley's streets as London's classiest strippers?" she counters with a teasing smirk.

"Hm, I rather like your idea _much_ more than mine," he replies with a sly smile as he pulls her to him and fingers the frayed hem of her shirt.

(Bloody hell, is he trying to kill her? It's already troubling enough to deal with him as her first thought in the morning – there's definitely no need for _dirty fantasies_.)

She sighs and gently pushes him away. " _Down_ , boy. It is my duty as the one and only best friend that you'll ever have to tell you to stop flirting because I refuse to be one of your airheads, remember? Right, so tell me, why are you actually here?"

(For a second, she thinks she sees a look of disappointment flash across his face, but she must've imagined it.)

"Right, er, best friend. Long but _fun_ day ahead of us again, you game?"

 _Again_. Did she mention that he's been, for some currently unknown reason, insisting on dragging her around questionable places every day since the shopping trip last week? And he's been touching her a lot more than usual like some touchy-feely ex-girlfriend, as in random, seemingly accidental brushing of the hands and a lot more hugs than usual. Not that she's complaining, but you know. It's so incredibly frustrating because he's actually sort of (really) good-looking, and Merlin knows that sinfully gorgeous boys, mixed signals and – _let's not forget_ – the infamous issue of the friend zone don't exactly go well together, not at least for Rose, who's never had a legitimate relationship before.

Yes, terribly depressing, but unfortunately true.

"What you think is 'fun' is quite _debatable_ , Scor," she answers, folding her arms across her chest with scepticism lying in the arch of her eyebrow.

He pouts in mock indignation. "I did not realize that you would consider sneaking into a Muggle zoo and setting loose all of the snakes in the reptile house _boring_. Oh, the woe of having a dull best friend with a lack of appreciation for thrill and excitement!"

"Try _terrifying_. And Merlin, if your House could see you now - all brave and _thrill-seeking_ \- you'd definitely be disowned and kicked to the kerb."

"Ha, you're one to talk, Miss I-Think-Having-Fun-Is-Terrifying. You'd be kicked to the kerb too, and we'd have to live in cardboard boxes in sketchy Muggle alleyways with only each other and rats for company."

She sniffs and tilts her chin upwards, her nose in the air with mock contempt. " _You_ can stay in your cardboard box as long as you want, but I'll probably upgrade to a nightclub since I seem to be the only one with brains around here - stripper status, remember?"

"Clearly, you'd be disowned for _having a brain_."

Rose shoves his shoulder playfully and finishes the last of her eggs and bacon. "No dissing my House, you hear? We're beautifully paradoxical disappointments - or _anomalies_ , if you will - and that's how the resident ginger and resident git roll, yeah?"

"Brilliant choice of epithets there, resident ginger."

"Thank you ever so much, resident git. Let's get on with this 'fun' day you have planned, shall we?"

"Oh look, the resident ginger has decided to have fun out of her own free will today. 'Tis a miracle!"

"Godric, don't be such a prick. If you ever decide to keep one of your airheads, remind me to teach you how to _shut it_."

"I'll take you up on that. But first, allow me to teach you how to tame that ghastly beast atop your head that you call hair."

"Just shut it and keep moving, albino."

…

"So, are you going to tell me why we're in Hogsmeade?"

He Apparates the two of them to Hogsmeade right in front of Three Broomsticks, and they begin walking in the direction of…the Shrieking Shack, of all places. He'd better not be planning something morbidly hilarious but terribly unethical like spray painting graffiti on the walls or egging the place. Or both, knowing him.

Merlin, she really missed this place. This place and Hogwarts, where she did most of her growing up. Well, the sparse amount of growing up that she managed to do since she unfortunately befriended Scor within the first week of her first year. And God knows the albino brings everyone down with him.

"We, my ginger friend, are paying the Shrieking Shack a little visit."

"What for?"

"It's a secret."

"Secretive now, are we? I was under the apparently misguided assumption that best friends were supposed to tell each other _everything_ , Scor."

"Surprises included? Because we all know you live and breathe surprises."

"Not _yours_ , wanker."

They arrive in front of the Shrieking Shack, and she takes a huge, exaggeratedly dramatic breath. Even though her family has recounted innumerable times the real story behind the place, the Shrieking Shack has never failed to spook her with the rotting wooden beams framing the stained walls and the ominous claw-shaped rips marring the faded floral print curtains.

"Terrified again, love?"

"Immensely. Quaking in my boots, in fact."

"Do I have a damsel in distress on my hands? Shall I rescue you, milady?"

"Oh, my knight in shining armour has come to rescue me! Of course you may, my good sir!"

Rose screams as he smirks and catches her off guard when he proceeds to pick her up bridal style, and the surrounding air is fraught with her infectious laughter, causing him to chuckle along with mirth evident in the light grey of his eyes as he carries her into the eerie house. And, for some reason, he doesn't put her down, not for one second during their trek through the empty, winding hallways and creaky wooden stairs and dank rooms. It's rather perplexing, and her befuddlement is growing by the millisecond because it just feels normal and _right_ to be in his arms like this, with her held tight against his (quite nice) not too shabby chest and her senses tingling from the inundation of his familiar woodsy scent. And there is no coherent explanation for this warm, fuzzy feeling fanning out from her stomach into her arms and fingers, legs and toes.

Wait. Bloody hell, is his right hand straying towards the hem of her shorts?

"Scorpius Malfoy, I don't know what's gotten into you lately, and I really don't want to know. But I will hex you to your grandfather's cell in Azkaban and back if you—"

She squeaks when he begins to gently trace small circles on the back of her upper thighs, and she tightens her arms around his neck, burying her face in his neck – which smells like forest pine or something equally divine, but that is completely beside the point – and completely dying of embarrassment because he's _not_ allowed to know how incredibly nice this feels and he'd better not mention the spasmodic rhythm that her treacherous heart is beating to.

"Relax, ginger, a little massage never hurt nobody, yeah? A simple 'thank you' would suffice, my fair lady."

"Your kinky version of a massage doesn't match up with mine, you twat. So, a 'thank you' is not in order, especially since you still haven't told me where we're going."

He mock pouts, and she can't help but giggle because he looks ridiculously (endearingly) childish, like a confused, heartbroken toddler who's had his lollipop stolen from right under his nose. And Scorpius probably would've resorted to teasing her with a kinkier version of his "massage" if they hadn't reached the other entrance at the base of the Whomping Willow, which had been conveniently paused in its defensive rampage by a twig pressed into the small knot above its entrance.

Godric, are they paying a visit to Hogwarts?

She whips out her very, very, _very_ useful puppy eyes because they'd _better_ be visiting. "Scor, are we breaking into Hogwarts? Please oh please oh please say we are!"

His voice is a tad strained as he gulps. "Possibly."

He gently sets her down on the grass, slightly bumping her shoulder as they make their way across the hilly ground towards…oh Godric, Hagrid's hut. Scorpius is going to coerce her into making a fool of herself with one of Hagrid's creatures, isn't he? Merlin knows that her worst class in all her seven years of schooling was undeniably Care of Magical Creatures.

"I swear, if you're making me deal with a Blast-Ended Skrewt or Bowtruckle or whatever the hell we learned about in our third year, you are officially not my best friend anymore."

He smirks. "You're even touchier than usual today, ginger. You'll probably be disappointed when I tell you that we're actually taming dragons today."

She narrows her eyes at his smirk. "Dragons? You're taking the mick, aren't you? Because I don't hear anything, jerk face."

"Ah Rose, I was beginning to wonder if being a Gryffindor had finally gotten to you and removed your intellect in the process. No taming dragons today – just visiting Hagrid for a bit."

She ignores his typical jibe at her House and beams at the mention of visiting Hagrid. Even though Care of Magical Creatures wasn't exactly her favourite class, Hagrid was and will always be one of her favourite people in this mad world.

"Letting me visit Hagrid on my special day? This is why you're my best friend, Scor!"

"Special day? What's so special about today?"

(Is he teasing her? Or does he really not know it's her birthday? After all, this boy's renowned for his forgetfulness.)

"Uh, it's the fourth of July. Does that ring any bells?"

"Rose, don't tell me you've started celebrating that American Muggle holiday. That would be absurd even for you, love."

(Can he please not call her love because it makes her want to melt into a nauseating, probably pink, puddle of girly whims and notions?)

Sometimes, Rose wishes that she could restrain herself from carelessly wearing her heart on her sleeve because she's certain that the white-blond haired boy next to her can see her visibly deflate with disappointment reflected in the downturn of her lips. "Don't be ridiculous, Scor. Never mind, let's just go surprise Hagrid."

He frowns and follows her when she walks up to Hagrid's front door and takes a deep breath before knocking. She tries yelling Hagrid's name and pounding on the door for the next four minutes, but the bearded half-giant never answers her frenzied calls.

"Hey Rose? Let's go into that little copse of trees that he's usually at in the afternoon and check if he's there, yeah?" he suggests.

"Yeah, sure."

"Now now, don't be cross with me on your special day, Rose. I'm not going to be the reason for your grumpiness, milady."

She doesn't answer. She doesn't answer because she's embarrassed that she's been unfair to Scor, whose only fault has been being himself, which entails forgetting her bloody birthday, but never you mind that. The point is that despite his countless exasperating faults, he's the right sort of guy – not (well, maybe) in the lovey-dovey sense – for her, and she figures they've always been meant to be, right from the start when her father told her to stay away from him, as friends, as sarcastic intellectuals who both have a flair for the dramatic, as two misfit toys cheerfully rebelling against the dreadful tragedy that is the lack of intellectuals left in this world. Right now, he's walking next to her, and all feels right with the universe. She should be used to it by now, but she's still shocked by the comforting warmth and reassurance that his nearby presence elicits.

And she's definitely shocked when she sees a bloody hippogriff tethered to one of the trees in the familiar copse.

"Tell me we're not riding that thing," she mutters.

"We're riding the thing," he affirms, sporting his unflappable smirk.

"Nuh uh, you can't make me on my special day."

"C'mon Rose, it's just like flying on a broomstick. Didn't you play for Gryffindor for six years or does my admittedly terrible memory serve me wrongly yet again?"

"Flying on a broomstick is completely different, Scor! The hippogriff has a mind of its own and could bloody well lead me to my untimely death!"

"Nah, Hagrid trained the hippogriff, didn't he? It wouldn't lead us to our deaths, not if it respects us."

Scorpius takes a step forward and bows low, keeping eye contact with the intelligent creature. The hippogriff looks at her and engages her in a staring contest as well, evidently expecting her to bow in front of it as her best friend is currently doing. And so she does – she does only because the hybrid animal probably wouldn't hesitate to bite her head off, mind you. It's not as if she wants to ride it, as if she's reluctantly curious about flying on a hippogriff like her mum did with Uncle Harry and Sirius back in their third year.

It breaks eye contact and lowers itself to their height. Scorpius grins – the smirk is gone, for once – and helps her up onto the hippogriff's feathery back before clambering on board and seating himself behind her. Her entire body is touching his, and it's so beautifully intimate in a paradoxically innocent way that it almost hurts. Her skin and nerve endings are on fire and they're sparking, flaming, _burning_ like a carefree fire dancing through a forest in July when suddenly, they're looking at each other, ocean waves into thunderclouds.

(Oh Merlin, he is so perfect for her it actually hurts. It hurts, but in a nonsensically good way.)

They're only shaken out of their shared reverie when the hippogriff lets out an impatient squawk. He clumsily pulls her flush against his chest and cryptically tells the hippogriff, "You know what to do."

Rose stifles a scream and can only marvel when they rise up, up, up into the sky and high above the treetops. The rows of shops and houses seated among grassy squares are the size of the freckles on her face, and it's the craziest thing because she's never been this high up before and she's never really imagined that something so big could be so small at the same time from another perspective.

She's laughing and he's laughing, and they can't stop because they never dreamed that they could see and feel so much while flying. The insane flood of adrenaline and giddiness shooting through her has convinced her that up here, she can do anything because they're on top of the _world_.

Relaxing into his chest, she can't help but smile like a bloody lunatic because it feels rather nice to be back up in the air, in his (lovely) arms, his hands warm against her stomach and surely burning a hole through her shirt. She can feel his heart beating fast, wildly against her back, and for some reason, she hopes it's because of her. She blushes at the unexpected thought, and her smile falters a little because romantic feelings for her idiotic prat of a best friend are absolutely _not_ allowed. Besides, he isn't the type to fall for someone like her; his heart wouldn't beat for someone like her: silly, old Rose with her disastrous ginger hair, abnormally large amount of freckles, and a week-long thunderstorm for a temper.

But all of those thoughts fly out of her mind as his lips touch the back of her ear, and she yelps in surprise and confusion at yet another example of his flirting that "isn't flirting," according to the wanker, who's currently smirking at her in a way that's turning her insides to jelly.

"Don't I get a thank you?" he murmurs, his breath tickling her neck.

She turns to look at him and just about melts when she sees the devilish smirk he's wearing countered by the tentative, hopeful look in his eyes.

"Thank you for not letting me fall to my untimely death, I guess," she responds with a smile before impulsively leaning forward to kiss him on the cheek.

She misses the pink rising in his high cheekbones as she turns back around to look at the view around her. After twenty minutes, she still can't get over how beautiful everything is when you look at it from a different perspective, how quickly the landscape changes over ten seconds when they're up in the air above everything. It's magical, a different kind of magical - the kind that's natural but still takes your breath away. Just as her friendship with Scorpius has always been.

 _She wants to stay up here forever._

But unfortunately, all good things must come to an end, and she's sorely disappointed when they land in a grassy lot fringed by trees much older than her. She waves goodbye to the hippogriff before it takes off in the direction of where they originally came from, and she turns around to see Scorpius smirking at her.

She rolls her eyes. "Don't you dare say 'I told you so.'"

"Was it not _fun_ , Rose? Or was it _terrifying_ enough to leave you in desperate need of a knight in shining armour again, milady?"

"Actually, it lacked the 'thrill and excitement' that you promised. How could you fail me, my good sir? Now I've fallen into deeper depths of distress!"

They begin walking through the thicket of trees towards a dirt path strewn with gravel and fallen leaves. Ten minutes later, they're standing in front of an unfamiliar building that she quickly notes is the first ice-skating rink in the Wizarding World: Hewell House Ice Rink.

"Scorpius. You do realise that we could've just Apparated from my flat, right?"

"Rosie love, where is your sense of adventure?"

"Probably lost it back at the reptile house last week, Scorpy love."

They reach the front doors and he surprises her by gallantly opening the door for her and tipping an imaginary hat as if he's actually a proper gentleman from the Victorian era. He then proceeds to link arms with her and walk up to the front desk, where there's a girl a bit older than them running the cash register and handing the skaters their skates.

Scorpius flashes a smile, already flustering the poor girl. "Love, would you mind handing me and my unfortunately spotty friend here two pairs of skates? A size ten and a seven?"

 _Unfortunately spotty friend?_ He's one to talk, the freakish little – well, _tall_ – albino with skin paler than a bloody vampire under the light of a full moon.

"B-But you haven't paid yet," the girl stammers.

"I don't have any money on me, so we'll have to make do, won't we?" he answers, winking at the girl and causing her to blush.

(Oh Godric, does he actually think this is going to work?)

She gapes when the girl actually concedes and hands them their skates. Merlin, it's absolutely _ridiculous_ because how is it even remotely possible to make every single living person fall at one's feet in under five minutes? She almost feels sorry for all the airheads he's teased, all the hearts he's toyed with and broken with the aid of his incorrigible charm and good looks.

They slip on their skates and walk towards the rink, where she suddenly stops. Oh god, she's never ice-skated before. She's twenty bloody years old, and she's never ice-skated before. This is going to be a complete disaster, and she's going to embarrass herself in front of the entire Wizarding World, including Scorpius Malfoy.

"I can't."

"What do you mean you can't?"

"I don't bloody know how to skate!"

His gaze softens. "I know. That's why I brought you here today. You told me back in fourth year that you've always wanted to learn how to skate, so I'm going to teach you, Rose."

Merlin's balls, he still remembers that? Huh, it's nice to know that he _does_ pay attention to her sometimes. Well, more than nice, but that's irrelevant. He's holding his hand out to her, and with a deep, dramatic sigh, she takes it and lets him lead her out onto the slippery ice. Thirty minutes later, she's finally managed not to collapse on her two left feet and instead skate one round without holding his steady hand. But she ends up holding his hand tightly again for the next dozen rounds or so, definitely not because she likes the way her hand feels in his – as if the spaces between their fingers were meant to fit together like puzzle pieces in a manner that isn't terribly cliché at all – but because she'll probably fall flat on her arse if she doesn't.

"Scor? Thanks for teaching me. For the first and last time in my life, I'm glad that you're irresistible to the airheaded masses and that you could fluster Cashier Girl into letting us in without paying."

"Ah, not just the airheaded masses, but everyone else, too."

"With the exception of your favourite unfortunately spotty friend, of course."

"Don't you worry, ginger. I'll have you swooning in my arms soon enough."

Or rather, _too soon_ because she stumbles – rather gracefully, mind you – at his comment, and he catches her before she can fall. He, as expected, smirks at her predicament, and she speaks before he can. "Honestly, do you get _everything_ you want? But minus the swooning though, thank you very much."

"Well no, because I never wanted a spotty ginger with a regrettable nest of hair for a best friend."

"Prat."

"Ginger."

"Arse."

"Too ginger."

"Jerk."

"Way too ginger."

"Fabulous comebacks, Malfoy."

"Anytime, Weasley. Wanna head out to lunch?"

"Do you even need to ask?"

…

Twenty minutes later, they're standing in front of Rema's, their absolute favourite breakfast place, because they're the sort of friends that get chocolate chip pancakes with two extra helpings of whipped cream for lunch like the magnificently ironic human beings they are. They _live_ to be different. Since they're intellectually superior to everyone, they're expected to be incontestably better than everyone else in every way possible, according to Scorpius's indisputably flawless logic, which is not at all filled with the inherent arrogance that comes with being a Malfoy.

"Table for two, preferably by the window, please."

Rose rolls her eyes. "To look for new birds for you to shag?"

"You know me too well, love."

"You're incorrigible. I should reprimand you for objectifying women, but you're a hopeless cause."

"But you love me anyways."

"Unfortunately."

The waitress, familiar with their frequent bickering, rolls her eyes and can't help but smile at their squabble. "Here you are, you two. I'll leave you two lovebirds to finish your squabble before I come back for your orders."

Scorpius replies before Rose can. "Lovely old Lorie, 'tis not a lover's squabble but an argument over the merit of our ever-flourishing friendship! You should know by now that we've been best friends since the dawn of this world and, let's not forget, the most intelligent duo this world has ever seen."

"More like one-sided, declining friendship because all you ever do is shamelessly use me to find more airheads to woo and drop," Rose mutters.

"Careful now, Rosie – you're starting to sound like a bitter, old cow."

Rose scowls and reddens quite visibly – bugger the infamous Weasley blush – as Lorie, still smiling, excuses herself to serve another customer, affirming over her shoulder that she knows that Rose and Scorpius will want their usual pancakes.

The smirk on his face turns into a frown, a more serious look, when he notices that Rose is still scowling after Lorie has left. "Hey now, Rosie. You know you're still my favourite girl, right? Since you're the only one who'll always stick around and put up with my shit?"

She only raises her eyebrows in response.

"Dammit, Rose. Don't be cross with me. I was kidding, and now you've made me put on my serious face. Look at what you've done – it's giving me wrinkles!" he exclaims dramatically, pointing at the wrinkles that are sure to be there now.

She feels a tiny smile beginning to twitch at her lips. Bugger.

She sighs. "Fine, I'll forgive you for the sake of your pretty aristocratic face."

"Well, that didn't take long."

"Prat."

"You wound me, fair maiden."

"I thought I was your unfortunately spotty friend with a regrettable nest for hair," she quips, crossing her arms and raising her eyebrow at his words.

"Trying to get back into your good graces, love."

An amused smile ruins her unamused façade. This boy will be her downfall.

"Ah, there's the smile I have been waiting for. That nest and those spots you call freckles just might be redeemed by your smile, y'know."

"Thanks, Scor. I'm just about bursting with gratefulness that you've noted a supposed saving grace among my previously irredeemable qualities," she replies wryly.

"Face it, you actually need me in your life, Rose."

"That's questionable. Girl to your left in the red top and shorts, what do you think?"

"Eight."

"Really? I think she's a seven."

"Fine. What about that leggy blond one to my right with the purple whatever that is."

"Crop top. And she'd definitely be a six for you. What about the brunette in the blue dress?"

"Too voluptuous. And tall. She's a five."

Rose narrows her eyes. "I could've sworn all of your former airheads have been tall and noticeably well-endowed."

"Changed my mind. Figured that thinner, shorter girls are more my type. Like you, I reckon."

She stares at him. What the bloody hell was _that_ supposed to mean? He's looking at her with an intense, searching gaze that makes her unwittingly blush (again) and look away. An embarrassing swarm of butterflies is invading her stomach and Godric, she is being flattened by a train of emotions that may or may not be less than platonic. Bloody hell, she isn't supposed to feel like this, not around Scorpius. She isn't supposed to feel sodding butterflies. Or an unfamiliar, soaring elation akin to the fluttering of her insides. She's supposed to feel anything _but_ sodding butterflies and irrational elation.

(Boys are bloody confusing.)

Two plates of their usual pancakes are placed in front of them before she can say something, and boy is she thankful. She mutters a quick _thanks, Lorie_ and immediately digs into the huge stack of heavenly pancakes to avoid Scorpius's piercing grey eyes, missing the fleeting look of disappointment that flits across his face.

Attempting to vanish the awkward, unresolved tension, he clears his throat and chooses a topic exceedingly more comfortable for the both of them. "So, enough about me. Read any intellectually stimulating books lately?"

Her eyes light up, and Rose immediately launches into her opinions on an encyclopaedic book about dragons – her favourite magical creature and pretty much the only one that she likes besides kneazles – that she recently read. Waving her hands in frenzied movement, she doesn't notice Scorpius looking at her with a soft expression while she goes on talking animatedly about the finer points regarding the subtle differences in the aerodynamics of dragons' wings between species.

An hour later, they walk out of Remy's and onto the cobbled streets of Diagon Alley. They fall into a pattern of laughter and banter because, y'know, it's always a game of wits between Rose Weasley and Scorpius Malfoy. They fall into a discussion the way the rain falls to the earth and turns the world into a grey kaleidoscope. They fall into a familiar lullaby the way the rain leaves a lingering kiss on your skin, the kind of kiss that keeps you up at night. They fall the way people fall in love, and they fall into the soft benediction of each other's voices the way lovers fall asleep in each other's arms.

And she's trembling.

She's trembling. On the inside, she's trembling because this isn't supposed to happen. This isn't supposed to happen, but it feels so right to want to fall into him, to feel his heart beat against her chest, to bring out that wicked smirk upon his lips and to want to kiss it off. He's her bloody best friend, and she shouldn't want to. But she does. She does, and she can't help it.

It's absolutely terrifying. And exhilarating.

…

She hasn't stopped smiling. She hasn't stopped smiling because her best friend makes her feel wonderful things that she's never felt before, and it's rather scary but incredible that she metaphorically fancies the pants off of him. And she's emphasizing the word metaphorically, _not literally_ , because she's not a huge, perverted flirt like he is. It's just friendly – okay, _romantic_ – fancying the pants off her tosser of a best friend in a manner that only entails a metaphorical removal of his metaphorical pants that should somehow imply that she _literally_ fancies him a lot. Or too much.

(But she doesn't love him yet. At least, she doesn't think so.)

"I know I said that your smile might be your saving grace, but you're grinning like a half-crazed lunatic and it's really quite unattractive," he teases.

She's shaken out of her reverie. "What?"

He raises his eyebrows. "Alright there, Rose?"

"Yeah, why?"

"You were saying something about dragons' rights in Albania, and you just stopped mid-sentence. Is it because you saw your reflection in the shop window and realized the horror of the hippogriff's nest atop your head doesn't look half as bad as usual?"

"Very funny. You're such a charmer, really."

"Thanks. Runs in the family."

"Right. Your family's just as charming as a psychotic madwoman who tortures my mother for hours and kills the mood of every living thing around her."

He goes silent, and she inwardly curses herself for her blunder because Scorpius is so strong and cocky and confident and so bloody _good_ at hiding his emotions. And sometimes she forgets that he has terrible scars, terrible ghosts from a history that isn't his – that no one should have to bear.

They stop walking, and he looks at her – his face expressionless. But she can see the slight pain in his eyes only because she's known him for nearly half her life, and _Godric_ , it hurts to know that she caused that pain in his eyes. She tries to say something, anything, but nothing comes out.

(She is officially the most terrible best friend on the planet.)

"What the hell, Rose? That was uncalled for!"

Her bottom lip trembles. "I know."

He stares at her with an unreadable expression, and she looks away, searching for the right words to say, the only words she knows how to say.

There is a stutter in her voice when she finally speaks. "Your family's history is bloody t-terrible, and it reeks of bigoted supremacy and innocent deaths. But you're not your forefathers, and bugger, I'm so s-sorry, Scor. I'm complete r-rubbish, I know. I didn't mean it; I swear I didn't. I only m-meant that all of you Malfoys are h-highly insufferable, with the exception of your dad, of course. He's bloody hot, y'know."

(Okay, she completely mucked up that apology. Especially that last bit.)

He lets loose a long sigh, and the corners of his lips twitch into an almost smile. He stretches out his arms, and she walks into them as she has countless times, holding onto him tightly and breathing in his familiar scent of forest pine and coffee. The familiar scent of _home_.

"Did you seriously have to call my dad 'hot'?" he mutters.

"I only speak of the truth, Scor. And he is, with his chiselled face and hair dashingly swept over his brow and whatnot."

"Noted. I'll make sure to tell him that his good looks are well appreciated by a girl twenty-six years younger than him. A girl that happens to be my lunatic of a best mate, of all people," he sarcastically drawls, rolling his eyes at the messy-haired ginger next to him.

She looks up at him and smirks. "Don't forget to tell him that I have wet dreams about him every night!"

He groans with a grimace twisting his lips. "Oh Merlin, I hate you."

She grins at his grimace. "No, you _love_ me, remember?"

"You're gross, Weasley."

"You know you love it."

"Whatever floats your boat, you crazy bint. Anyways, since you think my dad is hot, and I'm said to be the exact replica of him, does that mean you think I'm hot, too?"

Oh bugger, she hates him. Of course, he is – he's the most attractive guy that she knows. But the knowledge of that would only inflate his oversized ego, so she turns away before he can see her blush. "Oh my _god_ , Scorpius. You can't just ask your best friend if she thinks you're hot!"

He steps closer to her and leans down, his fingers gently holding her chin as he turns her face back to him.

"I can see you blushing, y'know. And methinks the lady, not that you are one, doth protest too much," he teases, lips teasingly brushing her earlobe as he murmurs into the shell of her ear before slowly backing away just a few centimetres.

Bloody flirt. She hates the knack that he has for insulting and teasing her at the same time, she does. His face is incredibly close to hers now, and she's quite sure her face is aflame. "Rude. And you'd think that, after knowing you for nine years, I'd know you've read Shakespeare. Go figure."

"Stop avoiding the question, love."

(He needs to stop calling her "love" before she jumps him or something.)

"What question?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Don't you always tell me that you have a brilliant mind capable of remembering the most impossible things? My, you're slipping, Rosie."

"I'm only incapable of remembering a non-existent question, thank you very much."

"I asked you if you think I'm hot, love."

(Nope, not jumping him. Not ever.)

She can feel her heart beating erratically, and she hopes to Merlin that he can't feel it beating like a war drum. Licking her lips nervously, she doesn't notice that his eyes are transfixed upon her lips as she looks anywhere but him, blushing an even brighter red than usual. Curse her Weasley genes – they make her look like an unattractive, freckled tomato, which is as absolutely hideous as it sounds, by the way.

It's no lie that they've been skirting around something for days, weeks, maybe even months, but she can't identify what it is.

(She hopes it's that he has feelings for her, too, but she really shouldn't get her hopes up.)

"I don't like to be kept waiting, Rosie."

She smiles fondly. "You sound like a spoiled brat, you know that?"

He grins back at her. "And you love it."

"I might."

Then, he looks at her like he's searching for an answer in the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, the teasing blue of her eyes, the red mass of curls that he never fails to tease. Fidgeting, she bites her lip and fixates her eyes upon the ground – completely unaware of the warm gaze of her best friend. She misses the way that his eyes are soft as they trace over her face like an artist sketching out a map with his charcoal-stained hands.

She misses the way that he looks at her like she's the place on the map that he's been trying to get to for years.

He's been looking for a place to stay, and he looks at her like he has finally found it.

Lost in a trance, Rose squeaks when suddenly, Scorpius gently takes her chin between his fingers and tilts her face back towards him. Her breath hitches when he tucks a stray curl behind her ear, his fingers lingering over her neck.

(Is he going to kiss her? Oh god, does she still resemble an unattractive, freckled tomato because being a chronic blusher – is that a thing? – is bloody terrible and that would be quite unfortunate and damaging to her self-esteem if she still looked like a bloody vegetable compared to his Greek god self and –)

Without realizing, they are both leaning in, their noses nearly touching and their lips just a breath apart and –

"Well, don't you two look cosy!"

…

* * *

 **a/n:** hope you enjoyed the first chapter of this two-shot. still incredibly unused to writing flirty, sarcastic humour or whatever it is that rose and scorpius have instead of the dramatic angst and tragedy i usually write, so criticism is definitely welcome.

please don't favourite without reviewing! =)

-nic.


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